by Angie Sage
Parminter puts her arm around her mama’s shoulders. “Ma,” she murmurs. “I think we should say something.”
Parminter’s mama takes a deep breath. “Maybe now is not the time, Parmie,” she says, and then she takes my hand in hers. It feels so soft. I don’t think a Wingless has ever held my hand before. “Now, Maximillian,” she says, “you must not worry too much about your Kaitlin. No one can open the Orb without this DisK, so right now she’s not going anywhere on that that awful SilverShip.” And then she gets up suddenly and says, “Goodness, it’s late. Parmie dear, I will go and make up some beds in the safe room for you and the boys.”
I smile. I love that she called Andronicus and me “the boys.”
Parminter moves close to me and, as we watch the blurry flames through the little window of the stove, I take her nearest hand and hold it in all three of mine and we sit together in happy silence. I am aware of Parminter’s mama coming in and then tiptoeing out again, I hear the soft ticking of the clock and over in the far corner I hear the regular breathing of Andronicus. I wish that time could be suspended and this moment could last forever, but the clock ticks relentlessly on and suddenly I hear hurried steps and the kitchen door is thrown open. Parminter’s mama rushes in.
“Hurry!” she says, her voice hoarse with fear. “There are searchlights at the end of the street. They’re smashing down doors. Oh, my loves, you must hide. Quick, quick!”
We jump up and I go to get Mama’s teapot from the table. “Leave it!” Parminter says, very abruptly.
“But—” I protest.
“Maximillian, there are more important things to do right now. Like getting Andronicus out of here.”
Parminter’s mama takes the teapot. “Don’t worry, Maximillian dear,” she tells me. “I will look after it for you.” And while she is telling me that she is lifting off a small painting of a fat yellow bird that hangs high above the mantelshelf in the top right hand corner. There is a space in the wall behind it, just big enough for the teapot. “Now, Maximillian,” she says, “we will hide the DisK inside the teapot but it would be wise to burn the note.”
She gives me the note, Parminter opens the little door in the stove and I throw the note in. I feel sad as the flames flare up and the paper shrivels to nothing. My last link with my Kaitlin Drew is gone, and her five kisses too. I see the affronted stare of the eagle as it is hidden in its aerie as Parminter’s mama replaces the picture. It is a good hiding place; you would never know it was different from all the other little pictures.
We hear a series of dull thuds outside—they are breaking down a door not so far away. “Quickly now!” Parminter’s mama says.
Andronicus is bleary, but he allows us to hurry him out of the warm kitchen and into the foggy yard. And then we are rushing into the barn and back into the secret room. We hear Parminter’s mama shifting hay bales and then all is quiet.
But not for long.
A sudden crash comes from the shop side of the wall. Then shouts, thuds and the sound of breaking glass. Parminter looks stricken. “Oh, poor Ma,” she whispers. “She will be so afraid.” But Parminter’s mama does not sound afraid to me. We hear her angry yells and then a series of thuds. It is quiet for a bit and we listen fearfully for the voice of Parminter’s mama and at last we hear it and we smile with relief—it is even louder and even more angry. But then there is a piercing shriek and a tremendous crash comes against the wall and plaster falls from it and I think I see it move. In a very calm voice, Parminter says, “We must go. Maximillian, help me pull up the hatch.”
It is now that I notice set into the stone floor a trapdoor. I help Parminter lift it and beneath us a light comes on showing a flight of metal stairs descending to a small landing and then onward for what looks like forever. I feel quite dizzy with the height of them. Another loud thud and more falling plaster tells us we must be quick. We help Andronicus through the hatch and I take him down to the landing. Above me I watch Parminter close the hatch, and then she reaches up and pulls a long cord like a bell rope that disappears up through the ceiling. “For the frass,” she says.
“Frass?” I say. I am a little shocked. Frass is insect dirt. It is also a nasty word thrown at we who are Roach.
“Yes, frass. What’s wrong with that?” Parminter says as she comes delicately down the steps to join me.
“It is not a nice thing to say,” I tell her.
Parminter stops on the landing and looks at me with a serious expression. “Maximillian,” she says, “if people call you a bad word, that is their problem, not yours. You should never be afraid of a word. Use it how you want to, because words belong to us all.”
I think I understand what she means. It is like calling ourselves Roach, which is a bad word some Wingless use for us, but now feels to me like a good word. And right now, standing beside Parminter, I am proud to be Roach. I truly am. I smile at her and say, “So what is this frass?”
Parminter smiles back at me. “Oh, it’s all kinds of things—dust, old flour, rat droppings—whatever I sweep up from the bakery floor at night. I shovel it up and put it into the tented ceiling. And I have just dropped the lot into the secret room. It will look like no one’s been there for years.”
“Parminter,” I say, “you truly are a wonder.”
And Parminter’s eyes glow bright, like lovely little harvest moons.
Chapter 26
Secrets in the Night
M
We are in Parminter’s hut, which buzzes like a swarm of bees. Andronicus is asleep, wrapped in a rug on the floor, and Parminter and I are sitting on two stools. I have pulled them close together so that I can put my two right arms around her slender wing cases, and she is leaning against me, sobbing. I would like to feel happy holding Parminter but I cannot, for we both know her mama is in grave danger. We cannot help but be very afraid for her.
As we sit together I wonder how I would feel if my own mama were in such great danger. I confess that I do not think I would be in desolate despair, as Parminter is now. Maybe this is the one good thing about having such a mama as I do—that I will never feel such sadness for her.
Parminter’s sobs have turned into little hiccups now. We sit together quietly and in the softly buzzing warmth the strange events of the day catch up with me and I feel my eyes slowly closing. . . .
P
Hello, it’s Parminter here. Again. Maximillian is leaning against me, asleep. He has his mouth open just a little bit and is making soft breathing sounds. I cannot sleep because I can’t stop thinking about Ma, but Maximillian needs to rest. With some difficulty—Maximillian is very heavy—I get him to lie down beside Andronicus, who is snoring in what is, to be frank, a rather annoying way. And then I sit in Grandma’s rocking chair, which is comfortable even for me because it has a big space at the back to tuck the end of my wings through. As I rock to and fro I think how strange it is that as soon as Maximillian falls asleep I feel your presence.
I do think you’re a bit creepy, hanging around and watching Maximillian all the time. Or perhaps I’m just a little bit jealous you can be with him whenever you want? But the truth is, I would like your company tonight. It will stop me thinking too much about Ma and wondering what is happening to her right now.
So I’ll talk to you, shall I? I can explain how things work here because I don’t suppose Maximillian does that, does he? No, I thought not. The reason is that he really doesn’t know much. His ma—or “Mama,” as he calls her—shut him away like a prisoner in Oblivion for all his childhood. He knows nothing of how our world works apart from what he has found out in a few books, and the lies and half-truths that his precious mama told him. He’s not even learned much in our friendship group because Cassius always stops any remotely critical discussion.
I suppose first of all, you want me to tell you where we are now? Its official name is Curator Refuge East 3, but to us Wings it has always been simply “the hut.” It is a large, insulated metal box set in the middle of our u
nderground chamber, which forms the foundations for the four huge feet of the eastern skylon. I love to think of the delicate latticed mast rising up high above us, its roots reaching out of the earth like an ancient tree, its very tip shining out of the Orb and into the Outside sky. It makes me feel in touch with the whole world.
I watch the circle of eight lights and the ninth in the middle—one for each skylon—blinking steadily on the control panel. Beside the eastern light, number three, is the DisK Lock, the indentation where our DisK used to go, now filled with an ugly plug of gray metal.
And you are still here. . . . So, I suppose you want me to keep talking to you? Okay, then I’ll tell you about Roach names.
In my great-grandmother’s time they created the Roach Register with its compulsory “approved” names. We have always had Roach in our family, and so she decided that everyone in our family would take a Roach name—not just those of us who are Roach. She chose Wing, which was one of the nicer names. This is why Ma is “Wing” too. It has disadvantages, of course, for there are places that Ma can’t go with a Roach name and she can’t be employed in a school, hospital, café or restaurant either. But we are lucky enough to have our own farm, so that doesn’t matter.
I am telling you this because I suspect Maximillian does not understand how hard it is to be Roach in this city. He thinks that bad things have happened to him because he is a bad person, not because he is Roach. But I have to admit that it is not that great to be Wingless in this city either, unless you are part of the Bartizan Top Tier. And who would want that on their conscience? Not me.
Oh, this is most peculiar. I can feel you looking at me. Don’t you want to go now? No? Okay, then, I may as well tell you about the DisK.
In the old days, when the skylons were first built, every hut controlled its own mast with its own DisK. We curators had a lot of autonomy then; we could alter the strength of the Orb to let in more sunlight if crops were failing and sometimes we weakened it enough to let in some rain. We could even—in theory— switch the Orb off. Of course no one ever did; we acted together and trusted one another completely. However, the Bartizan was growing ever more powerful, and each successive Guardian more autocratic. One night there was a raid on all the huts. The Bartizan guards took away our DisKs, welded the controls to the on and the max positions, and destroyed the DisK Locks. So now only the Bartizan controls the Orb because only their DisK and their DisK Lock exists. And it is that precious, surviving DisK, which is now the only breaker and maker of the Orb, that lies secretly in its bed of wadding inside Maximillian’s horrible teapot. So now do you see what possibilities Maximillian has brought us?
I do wonder how Kaitlin got hold of it, but I think it must be something to do with her mother—why else would Joanna Drew have been Astroed? Ma was so upset about that. The only reason we stay here beneath the Orb is that Ma wants to help people like the Drews. She could have got them all out to safety in Grandma’s place in the Outside hills if only she’d known they were in trouble.
Oh! Do I see you being surprised that Outside is safe? Well, despite what the Bartizan says—and Maximillian too—it is free of Contagion and some people even live there, my dear old grandma included. Even I’ve been there a few times and it is so beautiful compared with this dull and dingy city. But it is a dangerous thing to do. Going Outside makes you a traitor, like so many things in this frightened city. And being a traitor gets you Astroed. And now I can’t stop thinking that that might happen to Ma.
I am not going to think about it. I am not.
I suppose that now you know there is no Contagion you think that the SilverShip is a good thing? That it really is taking kids from a sad, fading city to a new life? Well, it’s not. They kill the kids. All of them. And do you know how they do it? They put them in a capsule, hang it beneath the SilverShip and drop it into the ocean. My grandma follows every Exit. She has seen it happen over and over again.
Why do they do such a monstrous thing? Well, I think its because they don’t want any kid coming back saying it’s just fine and lovely Outside and there is no need for the Orb. Because what would happen to the Bartizan’s power if people were free to leave? Deep down people know that the SilverSeed kids don’t survive, even if they don’t know the exact reason why. So all parents of Wingless children are model citizens, because if you put a foot wrong, your child is taken to become a SilverSeed. As Ma often says, “Parmie, it is a blessing that you are Roach. I do not have to live in fear of the SilverShip.”
I feel tears welling at the thought of Ma and I wipe them away. I settle down into Grandma’s chair and breathe in its fragrant smell of tobacco. Grandma still comes back here. She rings the bell that goes all the way to the shop and then Ma and I walk down the long, cold passageways beneath the fields, and in the buzzing warmth of our hut, we talk and laugh and eat flaxseed cakes, while Grandma sits and smokes a pipe or two.
I push back the rug with my foot and look at the trapdoor to the secret tunnel that takes us to the Outside—that is where Maximillian, Andronicus and I will be going in the morning. We will come out into the hidden hollow way on the far side of the Orb and walk into the hills to Grandma’s cottage. She will keep them safe and I will come back and search for Ma. Hmm. I am not sure why I am telling you our big secret when even Maximillian doesn’t know it yet. But I suppose there is no harm in it. It’s not as if you can go telling the Bartizan all about us, is it? I suspect that you are as stuck in your own bubble as we are in ours.
Anyway, I hope you are beginning to see what a truly good person Maximillian is. I think that maybe you are, because he does seem to have stopped wanting to prove himself to you, for which I am grateful. And it is strange, but since you’ve come on the scene, things have certainly got interesting.
I have Grandma’s favorite blanket wrapped around me, and I am going to sleep now. So good night, whoever you are. Wherever you are.
K
It is one o’clock in the morning and I’m in my cabin. Even though I have the lights off—now I’m a Three Star I have control of the light switch—I still can’t sleep. All I can think about is Tomas. Tomas floating. Tomas alone. Tomas dying. And for what? Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
T
I can’t sleep. My bones are reamed with ice. ReBreethe scours my lungs. With each beat of my heart, a piston pounds in my head. I have been sick. Twice. It is disgusting. I thought I wanted to die then, but I don’t. I don’t want to die. I want to live. To live my life. To breathe fresh air. To feel warmth. I want it all so badly that I scream it out and the sound fills the helmet and hurts my ears. I hate this suit. I hate it so much. I hate it, hate it, hate it. . . .
Calm down, Tomas, calm down. Get back in control. Breathe slowly now, slowly, slow . . . ly. My panic begins to lift and I get back into the Astro rhythm. I hold my breath to allow the ReBreethe to disperse through my tender lungs, then expel the stuff in a short burst. It seems to work best that way. And so I begin to relax and disconnect. I am drifting facedown over darkness. Thoughts and images wander through my mind . . . a strange mixture of things I have never quite understood. Mom and Dad gazing at an old photo of a very young and smiling Dad holding a baby—a baby who I know was not any of us three, even though when I asked, they pretended it was me. And another memory . . . coming home from school early to find Dad sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing like his heart was broken. And Mom comforting him, saying, “There is nothing we can do. He’s gone and we must forget him.” Another time . . . me at the top of the stairs very early one morning seeing Dad creeping out of the house with a pile of books, and looking so guilty when I asked where he was taking them.
These glimpses appear and disappear, elusive in the night. They circle and swirl through my mind, forming bizarre patterns that at first make no sense. But slowly, slowly, they come together, snippets of whispered conversations: cocoon . . . digging . . . Maximillian . . . little Max . . . our darling baby boy . . . and so it is, with my brain connecting and
sparking in a ReBreethe haze, that I at last put the puzzle that is our family together. And maybe, just maybe, I begin to understand.
Chapter 27
The Boy Next Door
T
Bang!
Electric shock. Every bone shot through. Upside down, head slammed into top of helmet . . . spiraling, out of control, spinning down. A bird, be like a bird . . . arms out like the wings . . . legs like a tail . . . no good, no good . . . plummet, plummet . . . down, down, down.
M
Bang!
Something just hit the hut. I’m awake and yelling, “Enforcers!”
Parminter is up and flipping open the spy hatch in the door, looking out. “I can’t see anything,” she says anxiously. “The lights have fused.”
“They’ve switched them off.” I am not panicking. I am not.
There is a covered window in each wall and Parminter flips up the shutters in turn and shines her flashlight out. “I can’t see anyone,” she says uncertainly.
Andronicus stirs. “Wherr?” he mumbles.
Parminter kneels beside him. “It’s all right, go back to sleep,” she tells him. She looks up at me. “I think I should go out and check,” she says.
At once I say that I will go with her and she looks relieved. “We won’t be long,” I tell Andronicus, but he is already asleep.
Outside the hut Parminter swings her flashlight beam around the underground chamber. The beam catches the metal latticework of the skylon feet and casts a complex network of lines, which shift and change. We who are Roach can usually detect presences but my senses are overwhelmed with the pulsating buzz of the skylon current. If there were a whole platoon of Enforcers lurking in the gloom I do not think I would know. And so I watch warily, keeping my back to the hut as Parminter’s flashlight beam travels the chamber. It appears to be empty.
